April 13
Marrakech
I arrive from Italy at 11:15 or so and as I step out of the plane, the first thing that I notice is the heat.
“It’s hot as hell.”
I walk inside to fill out a customs paper, go up to the booth and the man inquires where I will be staying.
“I don’t know.”
He looks pissed at this point, but stamps my passport anyway. Nowhere else did I have to deal with such a question besides Israel.
I came into Morocco without a place to stay because I figured in Marrakech, there are tons of hostels with free rooms, so what’s the point of planning so far ahead. I also had not planned on staying in Marrakech that day either, but rather going up to Rabat. Sadly, my Couchrequests deny me so I stay in Marrakech to sit back, enjoy some food, meet some British students, and plan.
Bus 19 goes from the airport to the dead center of the city. You can either take a taxi, take the bus, or walk. I may walk when leaving, but let’s leave that to the future. I take the bus and say to the people next to me,
“Is it me, or is it hot?”
“Pardon?”
They’re French- great.
I end up getting off one stop further than the Medina, walk into a market and find an internet café. There a man is sitting with his feet on the desk and there are two children inside playing computer games. I take a seat and begin to do some searching as to where exactly I am. IP Location works perfectly when the locals cannot point out where you are on a map. I find a few hostels to consider and pick one- Auberge 2. After bearing thirty minutes of the children constantly moving in their chair behind me as well as making an annoying lip smacking sound, I leave. People sell raw meat in the streets. My eyes tell me the meat is left out much longer than the NSF standards of four hours but no one seems to care. Vendors sell pig legs, goat heads, and just chunks of meat. Not a tourist in sight, I figure I must be in a local area. I walk further and find a nice restaurant selling chicken tagine for 25 Dirham. It’s absolutely delicious and the workers are friendly. Also no tourists, so I at least feel more authentic.
I ask how to get to the Medina and they point me in the right direction, so I begin my brief journey, using the minaret as a North Star. Along the way Parks and Recreation equivalent workers are watering the plans- dare I say overwatering? They leave the hose on the ground and leave it running. I suppose it’s good for the locals because people, including me, just walk up and drink the flowing water. At some point, the water just fills the ground and soon enough there’s a small pool of water for this palm tree or shrub.
People here wait for their busses under the shade, so it’s convenient. I walk up to one man and ask him if he knows how to tie a keffiyeh/schmag. He tells me no, it’s not their tradition. I make note to look up how to tie it later on youtube.
I can tell I am getting closer to the Medina based on how many tourists I see. Crossing the traffic filled streets and dodging motorbikes I find myself at the entrance of the Medina- jamal al Fna. Lined up at the front are horse carriages and as a result, it smells of horses. I take a seat to find out exactly where I am. I ask where the Medina is and people point at the ground. I continue down the Medina, trying to calibrate myself to the instructions of how to get to the hostel. In the center the performers and entertainers show off their monkeys, charm their cobras with a melody, or are trying to show off some new product. Also to mention are the orange juice stands, which seem to absolutely litter the whole square. I walk down to the Derb Dabachi road and get lost into one of the many streets of Marrakech, while all the while people are telling me greetings in Chinese or Japanese. Down another street not as populated, doors down this street are incredibly imperial and I can only assume they are fancy Riads. I continue down the road.
“This street is closed. There is nothing down here,” says a child to me.
I walk back closer to the Medina and find another internet café. There I confirm my location once more and get out.
I notice a younger man spinning thread and he tells me what he is doing and tells me a story that he has no clue what it means. I ask to take a picture and he promptly refuses. Also present are two other people, another younger man and an older man.
“Do you want me to get arrested? I am a poor man,” says the thread spinner. “He does not talk much, he just sits and listen,” he says to his friend.
“He must be intelligent,” says the younger friend.
The thread spinner walks away and the younger friend introduces himself to me.
“I am from Couchsurfing, I have sixteen references,” he tells me. I already know where this is going to go. I researched Morocco months before and read that there are rather entrepreneurial CSers out there, trying to use Couchsurfing to make a pretty penny. They try to convince you to stay at their place and ask for a “donation.” Not every Moroccan is like this, but it’s extremely prevalent in Morocco. My With suspicions up- nobody should need to prove that they’re trustworthy, I play along.
“You can stay at my place, it’s 100 Dirhams a night.”
We walk down the street, pass the locals- women dressed in robes and motorbikes all around, until we reach his house. He shows me around and we go up onto the roof.
“Let’s have some Moroccan whiskey,” he says, which is actually just tea.
We get delve deeper into our conversation, he tells me about life, Moroccan women, and Islam. I go to take photos and he tells me he will be back- he needs to buy cigarettes. He comes back about twenty minutes later with cigarettes and a bag full of belts. I buy one after testing the quality.
“I’m trying to start a business with a friend. Life in Morocco is hard. I am the man of the house here...I like to have many friends-“
“Networking.”
“Yes, sometimes you make a little money from them.”
I feel like he is trying to give me some sob story. So I give him some real information about selling his products on Ebay or Etsy, tell him I’m going to go to the hostel, and I head downstairs.
“Why don’t you stay here? We will do traditional Moroccan things, eat Moroccan food, the best kitchen is mom, and-“
“Friendship should not be like that. Friendship does not involve business. I do not want to have to pay for this. That’s not Couchsurfing.”
“It’s like a gift for my mother.”
He shows me a postcard from a previous guest. I do not know exactly why, but I will assume it is some motive to try and convince me that he is trustable. Never before with Couchsurfing have I had to pay to stay with someone nor did anyone willingly tell me how many references they had, show me their postcards from previous guests, or tell me about their “friends” in Japan.
We walk towards the hostel and I tell him the story about how the Ben Gurion security check went. He seems rather apathetic and careless. We arrive at the hostel and he greets the owner.
“Did he show you here? He wants you to pay him,” the owner says to me with a full French accent.
“No I’m from Couchsurfing. I’m Mohamed,” our “friend” says to the owner. Acting so casual as if they had known each other so long, he begins to joke around and small talk. At this point, I am just waiting for him to leave because I certainly am not comfortable with him. I pay for my room and bid him farewell.
“If you meet anyone who needs anything, let me know.”
I receive a tour of the hostel; it’s actually extremely hospitable and inviting. It’s in a Riad and there is a rooftop with plants all over- rather stunning. I go to my room and three students from the U.K. are there. We introduce ourselves and they invite me to drink on the rooftop later. I go to see what the Medina is all about.
I go to the Medina and take a look at what’s going on. There are tons of tourists. On the streets are children sitting on box grates, holding Moroccan almonds cookies to sell. All around are cafes and restaurants filled with tourists.
I go eat in a restaurant filled with French people, the portions are awful. The advertisement on the front 50 Dirhams for a three course meal proves to be dissatisfying. First dish consists of olives, some salad, and chili sauce. The second consists of mainly cous-cous, vegetables and a tiny skewer of grilled chicken. The “desert” is half a banana sliced and about three chopped strawberries. I accidentally tip the waiter 20 Dirhams, reinforcing shitty food but the service was good.
I back to the hostel and a youth no older than 16 comes up to me.
“There is nothing there. The medina is that way.”
I decide to have some fun and speak to him in German only.
“Bitte ich verstehe nur Deusch! Kannst du mit mir nur auf Deutsch reden?-Please I only understand German. Can you conversate with me in German?“
We continue this for about five minutes.
“Do you smoke hash?” inquires he.
“Smo kash,” I brokenly say about twenty times.
After that I just repeat everything he says in English with terrible pronounciations and stresses.
I go to the hostel with him beside me,
“There is nothing there. It is closed.”
I ring the bell.
“Give me money.”
The doorman lets me in and shuts the door on the youth.
I go upstairs to rendezvous with the British students from earlier who lazily were drinking on top of the riad.
“We hitchhiked from the U.K.- okay so we cheated and took a ferry and trains.”
“Okay, so now you’re on the last leg of your journey, it’s time to reminisce. What were your best and worst experiences,” I ask them.
And they go on to tell a story that makes me laugh like I have not laughed in a long time.
“So we’re in northern Spain, Bas Country, and we’re so disappointed because we’ve been outside for ages and no cars have picked us up, when all of a sudden this man who must have been 80 picks us up in his what must have been 40 year old Ford Explorer- it was so rusty and and the back just smelled of oil. We can hardly speak any Spanish- just enough to communicate where we are going and this whole time he is just mumbling to us in Spanish. All of a sudden the tire blows out and we go on the side of the road to change the tire. You should have seen it. When we were jacking the car up, the jack was literally just crushing the rusty frame of the car, so everytime the jack went up,it went deeper into the car. We had to change the bolts because the old man could not do it himself. At this point we considered not going back in the car, but we had no other option either because we were in the middle of nowhere. So we get back into the car and by now, the man is going crazy. We figure we want to get out as soon as possible and we see a sign to an exit nearby. The old man starts driving on the shoulder of the road while swerving until he drops us off in this city. Apparently, it was a city famous for its pork slaughterhouses. So its about 11 PM at night and we’re walking through this town where there are just pig body parts like legs just hanging everywhere. We go to a hotel and that itself was weird. The next morning we get a ride out and it turns out that there were plenty of nice cities around this one- we just happened to get dropped off here for some reason. Other than that, that was by far the scariest experience aside from the ride from northern France to Bordeaux. This kid who must have been no older than 19 had just gotten a brand new Audi and offered to drive us down- he must have been going 30 over the limit until the point where the cops started tailing him. Apparently he did not want to get caught so he
started to go 240 on the highway, bobbing and weaving through traffic.”
We call it a night.
My first impressions of Marrakech are disappointing. The Medina, especially, feels so contrived. I’m sure the locals do not go around buying almond cookies from children selling them on the street. The presence of the tourism is so strong that some Moroccans have made it a business to try and get as much money from the tourists as possible- taking advantage in whatever manner possible. Even with Couchsurfing, they exploit the system to try and make money (that’s not only Marrakech, but anywhere with a strong tourist presence like Zagora). What’s the point of going to a foreign country when everyone around you is a tourist? When leaving Marrakech and passing by the Medina, I felt like it was Disneyland. Here you have your masses of westernized people dressed in their scantily clad clothing, entertaining themselves by watching a cobra charmer or sitting in a café with other tourists- yeah that’s real culture. Marrakech, at least the Medina, rubs me the wrong way. The stop after the Medina where I initially accidentally landed, felt more authentic, but that’s just a tiny part. It makes no sense for me that whenever I walk into a nook and cranny of Marrakech, a child or teenager is telling me that the street is closed, the Medina is that way.
I look to Couchsurfing to see what my options are. I hear Fez is a lot less touristy, so I decide to head there.
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